And Then There Was Nothing
by Hisa-Ai
Summary: And the first time, sitting around the fire, the air heavy with loss and pain, that Arthur had clasped Merlin's hand in his own, he didn't recognize the way Merlin cut his eyes at him, maybe surprised, maybe pleased, but… He hadn't pulled away.


**So this is just a slight AU in which Merlin is _not_ immortal.**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Merlin. Obviously.

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><p><em>And Then There Was Nothing<em>

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><p>*.*.*.*.*<p>

Merlin's hand had always been warm in Arthur's. It had been warm and calloused and light and _right. _And the first time, sitting around the fire, the air heavy with loss and pain, that Arthur had clasped Merlin's hand in his own—and it had been without thinking, really, because all he knew was that they had both needed comforting, and something told him there would be no greater comfort than to hold Merlin's hand in his own—he didn't recognize the way Merlin cut his eyes at him, maybe surprised, maybe pleased, but…

He hadn't pulled away.

If anything, Merlin had only tightened the grip between them, his thumb stroking the back of Arthur's hand, sending a thrill through Arthur as he ducked his head and smiled to himself. For that moment, the air was light and the world was okay, despite the chaos and the terrible things that had happened outside their own little bubble of silence and peace.

And it didn't matter how girlish of a thing that might have been to say or think, because, _well…_

*.*.*.*.*

After that first night around the fire, Merlin found Arthur's hand around his own almost all the time now. Or at least, it felt that way. Any excuse Arthur could find to take his hand—out around the fire, sitting in Arthur's chambers, walking down an empty hall—he seemed to take it. It was such a simple, innocent gesture—for all the times Arthur grasped Merlin's hand, they had never kissed or hugged or _touched_ in any other sort of way—but, Arthur's hand…

Felt right, gripping Merlin's like that. And he didn't pretend to understand or know why he did it or anything of the sort, but…

He didn't actually mind it. He was enthralled by the gesture, actually, what was behind it—what he _hoped_ was behind it, at any rate—what it might _mean. _

And sure, perhaps dwelling on the way their hands always fell apart when the knights came up behind them, when another servant entered the room, when someone turned down the hall they were walking down, would have been enough to kill the moment, would have been enough to make Merlin confront Arthur—because what the _hell_ were they doing, anyway?—and yet... It never was.

Never.

Merlin never asked any question, Arthur never offered any answers, and yet it continued, their silent linking of hands and fingers, warmth and something soft passing between them when their eyes met on such occasions. No words passed between them, but... Hell if Merlin couldn't seem to care. The way Arthur looked at him, let both of his hands take one of Merlin's on cool nights around the fire, absent-mindedly warming it and rubbing small circles on the back of it... Surely all that said more than mere words alone ever would?

At any rate, he often told himself, there would be plenty of time for all that—for words and admissions and feelings to match the small, intimate gestures—later on, when things settled and their hearts could match their words and heads and when it wasn't all so...

There would just be time for it later.

*.*.*.*.*

Arthur felt bad for the way he treated Merlin. Or rather, the way he _didn't _treat him. He felt bad about the way he let the presence of others make him drop Merlin's hand like it was deadly, like it was hot or dangerous, when in reality... it was the most harmless thing Arthur had ever known. It was safety, something to ground him and make the most dire of circumstances seem... bearable. It was calloused and hardened and something almost a bit too much like hardship, but... it was home. Was it possible, he wondered to himself, for the simple _act_ of someone holding his hand in their own to feel so much like home?

Or, perhaps, it was _Merlin_ who was home. Just Merlin. Just _him_ and everything there was about him.

Such a truth sat heavy on Arthur, settled around him like it was an overwhelming sort of thing—and perhaps it was. He'd never felt something so... _strong_ for someone else in his life, truly, and it... terrified him, to be quite honest. However, Merlin's fingers brushing against his own was often more than enough to soothe such feelings, and push the urge to shy away from the revelation away.

There would be time, he decided, to allow himself to grow used to such an overwhelming sort of feeling, to allow himself to grow used to it and then, somehow or another, put it into words for Merlin. There would be time to grow used to showing such a simple gesture in front of others.

There would just be time for it later.

*.*.*.*.*

Except there wasn't.

There was never time for words and admissions and feelings to match small, intimate gestures, or to grow used to such an overwhelming sort of feeling, to put it into words for Merlin or... or _anything._

There was only time, as Merlin lay, gasping for breath, an untreatable wound having been inflicted on him on a battlefield he didn't belong on to begin with, for him to reach his hand out, searching for Arthur's to rub small circles onto it in a way that would mean more than any words ever would.

There was only time, as Arthur lay next to him, sputtering blood brought on by an even worse wound that had been sustained rushing in, against logic and reason, to save Merlin, get him away from those who would have seen him dead within those much too long and short seconds, for him to reach his hand out, to grab Merlin's weak, almost _cold,_ one in his own, hold onto the only true _home_ he'd ever known and always had with him, all those years.

There was only time for a lingering feeling of something being right in the world at last, for it to soothe all the pain, for Arthur to use the last of his strength to hold onto Merlin's hand for as long as he could, rubbing a slow, small, heartbreaking circle onto the back of Merlin's hand.

There was only time for Merlin's calloused, careful fingers to tighten their grip for half of a moment before they fell limp, and Arthur felt his home slip away before he himself did, the fleeting feeling of leaving home and somehow returning home encompassing that final moment when there was no time for worries, no time for lingering or wondering or regretting, no time for worrying about the knights or Gaius or servants or advisers seeing the display of intimacy that they had never given a concrete feeling or word to.

There was simply the feeling of one loving, careful, limp hand in the other...

And then there was nothing at all.

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End file.
